


home again until the war ends

by Kierkegarden



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, Freeform, M/M, POV Second Person, written in one draft for my best friend and to jog my obikin muse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 16:14:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17004927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kierkegarden/pseuds/Kierkegarden
Summary: You realize the hubris of a youth spent following, and you realize there’s a reason that you’re drawn to the unconventional Jedi and it’s not that you want to save them.





	home again until the war ends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LiliesandSin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiliesandSin/gifts).



War doesn’t suit you. You sit, legs crossed over your copilot seat, back straight, some feigned meditation for a feigned cause. Your eyes close so you don’t have to look at him. Even though you love looking at him, really, it’s the last thing you need right now. You look anywhere else, to the wires, to the sky, to the ship's filthy floor. Your stomach ruts. You sleep so poorly these days.

 

(War fits him like an old sweater, war is in his orbit, and somehow, he's found a way to control it. He’s directed and suddenly you, who once thought you could take the great moral quandaries of the old Jedi texts, are lost. You, who thought you could take the Force’s great mysteries, synthesize them down to small edible bits and cannibalize them and put them away! You realize the hubris of a youth spent following, and you realize there’s a reason that you’re drawn to the unconventional Jedi and it’s not that you want to save them.)

 

But Anakin isn't lost. He’s in his element in the vacuum of space and war, and no matter how you spent your youth or didn’t, you can’t help but peek between your fingertips. Anakin grits his teeth together. He tells you to man the blasters, just in case, and in the same breath asks if you’re feeling alright. He still calls you Master. You snap back that you’re doing the best you can, with how he’s flying. It’s always snapping back and spaces between words. 

 

(You can’t tell if their war is his peace, or if his calling is violence, or if he’s simply doing what you once did with the Jedi code and losing himself in something bigger. You can’t explain why you’re proud when you see the youth fading from his brow. You, who pushed for his knighting, before anyone else, who always had faith that Anakin would find his way -- you feel it building inside of you like a supernova: pride, love, an abundant sense of home. You, who dug a home out of ancient texts and even older saber stances. You, who can, maybe, find home anywhere.)

 

He comes to you one night in the belly of  _ The Resolute,  _ as you lie on your stomach remembering what it’s like to breath deeply. You jump, snapping yourself out of it, and he sits by your side. Like you used to do for him, once, when the dreams about slavers became his nightly reality. He strokes your hair and you can hardly remember what he looked like as a child.

 

(The thing about the Force is that war, the war you are feeding, thickens it. It feels dark and heavy all around you, even in the safety of this little bunk. You can't breath through it, you can't make out what will happen when the fog clears. It occults the future and the past, it even occults the safety that you once found in teaching him. Those listless days at the Temple feel like ancient history. You miss being young.)

 

He strokes your hair and he tells you that he is worried about you and you pull yourself to your knees on the cot. 

“I hope you weren’t asleep,” he says, knowing full well that you weren’t.

You look up at him gratefully. “Anakin,” you say softly, a hymnal chant, clicking your tongue, “Anakin, Anakin, Anakin.”

His eyes glitter like the oceans of Mon Cala from space, and it’s your last chance to say goodbye to your old Gods.

 

(Because home is so comforting, and so fleeting, and Jedi are supposed to be nomads but that doesn't seem to matter anymore. Because this war is heavy on your back and lungs and you want a place to spend the night, or maybe every night for the rest of your life. And you turned down the chance to have a home in Satine, and the chance to have a home in Qui-Gon was ripped from out of your fingers. This home is wide open and you can just make out the “sold” sign on the door as you hike your bags up on your back and go in. You’ve been waiting in the rain, dancing around the possibility and Force, you’ve been in love with Anakin since he was old enough to talk back to you.  _ Force _ .)

 

He leans in to kiss you, and you grab his wavy golden brown hair in your knuckles, pull him towards you. You, Obi-Wan Kenobi, have always cannibalized your home and taken it in its full capacity. You've always felt shame in that, but it doesn't seem to bother him.

 

(Because he does it too, he feels no shame, and he doesn’t bother to hide it.)

 

You open your own doors to him that night, let him possess you. Inside, it is warm and bright, there is food set across a long table. Inside, the wrinkles smooth from the sides of your eyes and your heart settles. You sleep easy that night to the sound of distant rain. Outside, the storm of war is too great and the rain outside is pounding, you can hear it snapping off the back of metal ships like blaster fire. 


End file.
